Perso
by AineRose
Summary: Jess, on the road, begins to write. Drabble-ish fragments of his journey. Rated for language


Just a little exercise, my first foray into GG fanfic! Rated for some language.

I'm trying to get back into writing after a long break, and this is what resulted. I don't really like it, it feels really sparse and fragmented, but that was kind of the idea. The writing was supposed to reflect the emptiness of Jess' life, so I guess its not such a bad thing. I'm not sure. This is where a review would be helpful! I'd really appreciate it!

Disclaimer: Gilmore Girls belongs to Amy Sherman-Palladino and the quotes belong to Charles Bukowski and Jack Kerouac.

'_If you're going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don't even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery-isolation. Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And, you'll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you could imagine. If you're going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It's the only good fight there is.'- Charles Bukowski (Factorum)_

_i_

It begins with a mere twitching of his fingers.

He has started smoking again, and a twitch is usually the result of a lack of funds to support the habit, but today he bummed a few from a dishevelled man who stood outside the 7-11, swaying gently as the blinking neon lights highlighted the dirty stains on his shirt. He is beginning to learn the difference by now between the homeless and the traveller. Between those who are temporarily inconvenienced and those who are aimlessly fucked.

He nicknames them the Lost Boys, because he is still young and only one that naïve to this lifestyle would quote _Peter Pan_. The Lost Boys, named despite the diversity of their gender, all look the same even when they are nothing alike: tired; dishevelled; haunted. Sometimes one will catch his eye- on the street, on the bus, in a park, anywhere- and he wonders if the resignation in his eyes is familiar to them. He thinks they seem to recognise him as kin, as one of them. Lost Boys, wandering from state to state, sometimes shuffling sadly, sometimes tearing away on a bus, always searching for that which will assuage the emptiness in their hearts.

He has not seen one yet that looked hopeful; that has not resigned themselves to defeat. He wonders what they are each looking for. He supposes he is looking for a home, but he is not so sure anymore. After all, he has voluntarily left every home he has ever had.

He wonders how resigned his eyes are. He certainly doesn't feel resigned to anything. In fact, all he really fears is a deep, racing fear, a fear that keeps him frantically scrambling to the next stop, the next city.

No, his blood is satiated with nicotine, and he should be feeling calmer.

_ii_

_"I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn't know who I was - I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I'd never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn't know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds. I wasn't scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost." — Jack Kerouac (On the Road)_

The hotel he is staying in is dingy in a way that he can never describe. He feels it soaking into his porous soul through his skin until he is filthy through and through. He lies on the bed, mangy as it is. Reading is out- the lights are flickering and it gives him a headache. The television is bust. He stares up at the ceiling fan as it thumps through the air rhythmically and almost soothingly, and tries to sort his head out. There is a persistent humming noise, the kind that radiates off neon signs and motel showers. He is the only person staying in this block of the motel. It is off-season wherever he is.

The weight of the realisation is sudden and choking:

_He is alone._

And worse, so much worse, he is _achingly _lonely. He wants to lift himself off the bed, shake out his ear like a swimmer, but he is too busy drowning. He clutches at the sheets under him, twisting and balling them as he gasps for air. He thinks of the people left behind, the people who will be alone tonight, Luke and Liz. Does it ever feel like this for them? His eyes sting and his throat burns and he can't breathe and goddammit what if that buzzing is the last thing he ever hears (along with his own wrenching gasps) and _what if he dies?_ Will they ever know? LukeandLizandJimmyandRory. _Will they ever care?_

(He is having a panic attack but does not know this and won't realise for days).

Eventually he calms himself. Remembers how to breathe. His slumber is fitful and restless.

His fingers twitch in his sleep, as if he is reaching for something in his dreams.

_iii_

He sits in a diner, drinking coffee and eating dry toast. His fingers twitch, and he remembers the night before. So he writes his mother a letter. It is probably the crappiest letter any son has ever sent his mother , but he knows Liz will delight in the contact. He can't fit the last year in his letter, but he can be honest, blunt, even, with his mother in a way he can't be with Luke or- or anyone else.

_iv _

He is woken by a cop hustling him on, and he obliges. Park benches are fun and all, but he's getting really fucking tired of this. It is dawn, and the air is bitterly cold. He pulls his hat down over his ears, stuffs his hands into the coat of his pocket. He buys a coffee and Danish from a cart. Money is tight, but after some deliberation he throws some to a gull beside him. It turns its head in distaste and flies away.

No, Denver is not for him.

_v_

He hoped she would understand; thought she would be the only one who might get it, but it was clear from her words on the phone that she did not. He calls Luke from a payphone, gets the machine, tells it he's alive, he's alright. It's a poor way to show his gratitude.

She doesn't understand and he wants to make her. His fingers twitch and find a pen, and he tries to explain.

_I'__msorry/Ifailedyou/Imissyou/Yale/IvyLeague/Dropout/Couldn'tevengiveyouProm/geneticscrewup/dontbelong/neverbelong/Iloveyou/Imissyou/I'msorry._

_vi_

But the sun is warmer and brighter a few states over, and the birds accept his scraps. He has written all he can to her. So he writes to get away from her. He writes everything he sees. When he looks over it later he realises he has recognised nothing but Lost Boys and neon lights, and it makes him deeply uneasy. He tries harder, forces out aesthetic descriptions through his tightly clutched Bic until his fingers go white and he feels he has nothing left to say.

_vii_

He goes to New York because it is familiar.

It is as cold as ever, and his life is as crappy as it ever was He lies on his crummy mattress reading _On the Road _in all his glorious disillusion. His roommates are rough and unfriendly and drug addicts, but having someone to talk to, even a word a day, is a blessing he has learned never to take advantage of.

He is considering calling Luke again, considering trying to reclaim the only sense of home he ever had, when Liz calls. Luke stole his car, and not some desperate thieves.

The betrayal sinks through him and settles on his heart.

He clenches his jaw. His blood boils.

_"you've got to burn_

_straight up and down_

_and then maybe sidewise_

_for a while_

_and have your guts_

_scrambled by a_

_bully_

_and the demonic_

_ladies,_

_you've got to run_

_along the edge of_

_madness_

_teetering,_

_you've got to starve_

_like a winter_

_alleycat,_

_you've got to live_

_with the imbecility_

_of at least a dozen_

_cities,_

_then maybe_

_maybe_

_maybe_

_you might know_

_where you are_

_for a tiny_

_blinking_

_moment."_

_ -Charles Bukowski (Bone Palace Ballet: New Poems)_


End file.
